


Instrumental

by Anonymous



Category: Oniisama E
Genre: Community: porn battle (insanejournal), Episode Related, Female Character of Color, Masturbation, Other, Painplay, Roses - Freeform, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-17
Updated: 2008-06-17
Packaged: 2017-10-14 23:33:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/154680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Rough winds do shake the darling buds of may...</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Instrumental

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt _Oniisama E: Miya-sama solo, aesthetic delight_. Originally posted [to the porn battle](http://asylums.insanejournal.com/porn_battle/7377.html?thread=1237713#t1237713).

Soft strains float through the air, plaintive notes like bubbles that might shatter if they touch the walls, saved only by the magnetism that draws them down to touch her instead, burrowing under her skin and fizzling like soda pop. She hardly dares to blink.

The room is full of roses. She cut these herself today; the sharp smell of their green sap flavors every breath. She cut them in fury. (The thorn-pricks still ache in her fingertips now, hours later.) She cut them in fury but gathered them in love, gentle as with a newborn child. They, too, had looked upon that precious face.

"Henmi-san," she breathes again.

She sees him even now, lets the violin melody help her recall the outline of him, tall and broad-shouldered with manhood but beautiful still. His open, laughing face (laughing at her, piercing deeper than thorns ever could), his wind-swept hair with its reddish lights. She burns for that face now, not like the innocent yearning of her childhood. She loves him carnally, as a woman. She wants him more, even, than in all the years till now combined, like looking down a staircase and knowing she has climbed higher, further, than anyone should ever go.

She has broken everything, even herself, and still it cannot be enough.

Her fingers move, now fast, now slow, in time with the tune she knows in her blood. Some mornings, she wakes from misty dreams to find herself humming it, and stills her voice, a hand around her own throat. She mimics that now, squeezing softly, then stroking, imagining how he might touch her on their wedding night.

Each touch arcs like fire through her wounded fingers, unbandaged and open to the night air. The wings of her collarbones feel hollow, full of air. Her ribs are soft bumps under the skin, her breasts heavy and full. She feels an ache lower down between her legs, but does not comfort it. Instead she lifts one bare foot and crosses her ankles delicately then squeezes, hard.

Heat unfolds through her whole body, shuddering in delicate waves like a bud unfolding. She reaches out and catches one of the roses (one that had been just on the edge of opening when she cut it) and lifts it from the vase, draws the petals to her lips.

"Henmi-san," she whispers into the secret heart of it, and slides her fingers between her tight-pressed legs. She presses deeper, rubbing the heel of her palm against the swollen, aching folds. Wondering, _would he feel like this?_ Imagining, _he would open me up and scatter me._

The music has words now, a boy's voice that echoes only in her mind. _Rough winds do shake the darling buds of may...._ With a desperate cry, Fukiko burns all the way through, twisting and mindless, taut.

When she wakes, there is a single petal between her teeth, neatly bitten in two. The rest of the flower lies crumpled on the floor, crushed and stained with its own juices. The music has stopped, the turntable giving a soft _click-click_ as the arm bumps the center post over and over, a mindless machine unable to help itself.

Fukiko touches her face and finds it dry.


End file.
